The clouds have been building up – a coming together of moisture, vapor, and hope. The colors changed from white to beige to grey to a looming darkness that promised relief. The tension sat on the shoulders and necks of the town’s people. They hoped the clouds would let go, so they could also relax, even just for a moment. But as they thought they could smell the rain, the clouds sucked up the remaining air and moved on.

Hugo cut the tomatoes into quarters, the peppers in slices, and the cucumbers into cubes. He tossed them into a wooden bowl when the first guest knocked on the door.

Come in. Don’t worry about your shoes.

Francesca closed the door with an elbow while pulling a casserole dish out of a shopping bag. She made it through the narrow hallway into the kitchen. Two kisses and a judging gaze at his outfit later, she opened the oven door, pushed in the pasta bake, and set temperature and timer.

Hugo scraped the waste into the bin and reached for the corkscrew.

White, red or rosé? Or Prosecco to start?

Prosecco first – for us. Are the others coming?

Yes, but Sam and Maryam are finishing something up in the office before they can join us. As always.

And who is the odd one out this time?

Me.

Come on. Who are you ‘introducing’?

Actually, her name is Rose, and she hasn’t been in town that long.

Not another one. Hugo, you don’t do well with those. They come and they go.

Yes, and I stay. But this is not like that.

Will see.

Francesca poured each of them a glass and saluted. She inhaled the prickly gas bubbles and tones of cedar or flowers or whatever sensory impression she was supposed to experience. She swallowed the sweet tang and hoped the alcohol would calm her down. While Hugo reported on his weekly routine, Francesca poured olive oil and then Balsamico into flat bowls and carried those into the living/dining room/office. She shimmied between the back of a sofa and fold-up chairs. Hugo had started to set the table, yet Francesca rearranged the plates, cutlery, and candles quickly, creating the illusion of more space. She didn’t understand why Hugo always invited people into his much too small apartment. At his age, and with his income, he could easily afford a much larger one. Anyways, no one volunteered to host the next get-together, so this tiny apartment would have to do.

Hugo brought in the salad, bread, and a jug of water on a tray. He examined the table in search of the right placement, so Francesca took the items and put them on the table, regardless of where since they would be in the way in any case and needed to be passed around.

Another knocking moved them back into the hallway and Francesca into the kitchen to refill her glass. She tightened the grip on the stem of her glass, brushed over her wrap-around dress, hair, and necklaces, and turned to welcome ‘Was it Rose?’

A small mousy woman entered the kitchen and handed her a package from a popular and pricey bakery.

I didn’t know what would be appropriate, so I bought tastes of different things.

Francesca pegged her as a people pleaser – that’s why the work at an NGO, did Hugo mention that? Well, he seems to go for that type and that look: not urban and stylish; monochromatic but not on purpose.

Hugo introduced the women formally and Rose asked for water, so Francesca added more Prosecco to her glass, examined the bottle and emptied it. She opened the second pane of the kitchen window to counter the heat from the oven. Even though the night air felt cooler, for Francesca it wasn’t a relief. The hum of the last few days stuck.

Hugo recited the layout of the apartment, the legend of how he had made friends with Francesca in London and how they – years apart and independently – moved to this town at about the same time. They compared work/yes, relationship/no, off-spring/so not status while reaching for olives. Rose nibbled, Hugo tossed some into his mouth, excusing his silence, and Francesca ran the monologue, keeping her from opening the wine bottles just yet.

The timer went off. Now, everyone was busy, taking the last bits to the table, creating varied paths over the obstacle course that was Hugo’s set up, ensuring that they really had everything. Hugo felt like a strategic mastermind: giving Francesca the seat to his right but letting Rose fill the seat to his left, thereby ensuring that she could listen to Francesca from a safe distance.

The salad made its first pass around just as Sam and Maryam stormed into the apartment.

It just won’t rain, will it.

It’s been what? A week with this will it; won’t it?

Some say it’s geoengineering, which doesn’t exist or we would never do, mind you.

So, this is Rose. Nice to meet you.

Yes, Rose, Welcome to, I don’t know, our ‘humble fold’ sounds too religious. We are by no means a cult; we are much too exclusive.

I see Francesca has been having fun without us. We have some catching up to do.

More salad is placed on plates and Hugo brought out the pasta bake, from which Sam and Maryam took an extra-large serving. For a few minutes, the voices ceased and only the sound of cutlery and the crunch of lettuce or cucumber could be heard. Everything felt lighter and more intense. Sam’s shoulders rounded over the edge of the table while Maryam occupied only half of her seat, not leaning but keeping her back erect and tense. This way only small bites traveled between her fork and mouth. Francesca lubricated every fork-full with a sip of wine. Hugo ate with the worry of a host, checking that each guest had enough food and actually liked the meal. Rose shifted from relaxed – I’ve been to so many of these friend-group-gatherings and know the dynamics – to agitated – I’ve read all the Substack articles about small talk and haven’t got a question to ask.

Sam broke the silence after sating his initial hunger and asked Francesca about her current projects. While she rattled off the latest progress in phase three, Sam’s eyes wandered between Francesca and Rose, which Maryam followed. Hugo noticed the calculated precision of Maryam’s observation and the threat assessment of Rose. It would not be the first time that Sam would fuck the odd girl. Hugo knew a detailed Q+A session would commence when Maryam volunteered to help with the dishes and coffee later on in the kitchen, but could he vouch for Rose? He hadn’t known her that long or well.

So Rose, what brings you to our town?

Accounting.

Everyone burst out loud.

Who still has an accounting job? Isn’t AI doing that?

Well, yes, and I’m using AI for some models.

Watch out that you don’t account yourself out of a job!

That’s highly unlikely currently. I’m assessing the value of the drowned migrants.

Like the guy in Fight Club? You know, a finger is worth so-and-so much.

I suppose quite similar. In fact, I’m establishing the potential value loss of future earnings and contribution to the overall economy, compare those to the savings in resources and social services and analyze the data points between the intended host nations and countries of origin.

Can you really put a price on human tragedies like these?

I’m not taking the emotional toll and individual suffering into account. My clients are less interested in that but rather in the contribution values and innovation losses. Since I’m mostly focusing on the under twenty, I track the potential of the loss. Let’s say, this person is eighteen and has received a fairly advanced education during childhood. This individual would have landed in Spain, worked in the agricultural sector and developed a more sustainable, water-saving method of growing tomatoes. Now, this loss has become more far-reaching than previously considered.

Who is ready for coffee?

Oh, I brought dessert.

Even Sam helped clear the table. They sucked in stomachs, avoided furnishings, and moved with extra care in the kitchen. Hugo set the large Italian coffee maker on the gas stove and Maryam gathered small coffee cups. When Rose took the dessert platter into the kitchen, Maryam asked,

Do we like Rose?

Francesca drained someone’s glass and gulped.

Can’t say.

Too soon.

A bit creepy.

The coffee machine erupted and spat out the last drops. The group retook their seats and passed Rose’s paper plate, that she had rearranged in the meantime, taking a couple of sweets to offset the bitter aroma of the espresso. Hugo carefully selected two pieces, wondering if his choice of dark chocolate and pistachio could say something specific about him and become data points.

Francesca felt sober after the first sip though the coffee couldn’t be responsible for that.

Who are your clients?

I can’t name them, obviously, but they are larger entities that invest in the future. So, these losses are not theoretical but practical. As a matter of fact, the next step is to demand reparations from countries and organizations directly responsible for these losses.

How horrible to commodify deaths.

Well, isn’t it even more horrible to just read about them in the headlines? And then do nothing?

Sounds familiar: companies benefiting from the death of strangers.

Yes, but at least those deaths are then real and accounted for. Who do you work for?

As product designers it varies. Super high stress but super lucrative.

And you, Francesca?

Actually, we don’t talk about work or jobs in my culture.

But you did share about your project not that long ago. So, who do you work for?

Hugo stepped in and declared

In marketing it depends. Francesca is working in an agency, but I do mostly freelance, so I can decide who I want to work with.

And all of you like living here?

Absolutely: we love the history, the culture, the food – of course the food, most importantly.

All is a bit slow, all is a bit more complicated than necessary, but then again, I’m not bothered by a little corruption – if it goes in my favor. Seriously though, this town is in my top five.

You don’t feel troubled by what you do, Rose?

Do you feel troubled by what you do?

Sam felt the rush of caffeine and thought of one more email he should write; Maryam released the worry that Rose would not be another calendar entry; Francesca decided to avoid expats for a while; Hugo swept crumbs onto his plate.

The evening closed with this uncomfortable knowledge that nothing was gained as they wished ‘good to see yous’ and ‘good byes.’ Sam and Maryam pounded down the stairs. Rose walked a bit slower but relieved to get out of the tight space. Francesca hung back, kissed Hugo longer than friendship would have allowed for, and closed the door with a sense of finality.

Hugo looked out into the troubled sky but didn’t close the windows, for it wouldn’t rain again.

Good to see you, buddy.

Yeah! You, too.

Rough week?

It’s been busy.

Make sure you get a drink. First round is on me. Promotion, baby!

A slap on the back sends me through the crowd of young professionals. We know each other by sight, by business, by alumni. But, our real bonds are in the future. Once we all have kids, we are forged together that way. Now, we can barely stand to hang out in this bar.

I check my phone for the time and take a sip from a draft beer. Twenty minutes and I can leave.

Sarah H. waves at me and then pointedly turns to a guy with a crew haircut and in a lilac polo. We slept together, spent one weekend at a couples’ spa, and left it at that.

I wave at Rachel M. who looks at me as if she doesn’t know me. We met every Wednesday night for three months, and then we didn’t any longer.

Star L. pinches my left cheek, grins, and drapes her arm around her current, new girlfriend. I had slept with her, but she had never slept with me.

We are looking good; we are looking fine. We are too many in this space; we do not touch each other, not even accidentally. We say things that mean nothing.

I tap my phone again. It’s finally time to leave. My phone hand parts the crowd, I reach the counter and

bump into the love of my life – cliché.

She smiles at me – cliché.

She apologizes while I apologize – cliché.

She touches my arm – cliché.

I order us another round – cliché.

We move into a quiet corner even though there isn’t one – cliché.

What is it that you don’t want?

I don’t want to waste moments like these, you know. It’s so easy to touch and go. My whole day can be done by someone, anyone else. There is this routine, routine, routine that I follow to maximize my days. This structure is supposed to bring out the best in me, bring my full potential to the surface, and make my life so much better. But I’m tired having lived so well that I don’t live at all. I don’t have the energy for that.

I hear that. I listen. I lean in. We both lean in, and my body releases this tension that keeps me ready, always ready for , for, for whatever is next. Her finger touches her ear. She is slightly taller than me, but definitely taller.

What are you afraid of?

Being so disconnected that any connection hurts.

***

A hot breeze lifts the left lower part of my white linen shirt. We are crossing the street to get to our hotel. I carry the bag with our daughter’s beach toys and sandy towels. She holds the child’s sticky hand, walks in front, so far away, from me. She is wearing platforms and looks so astonishingly tall.

The glass front mirrors a beautiful family. My eyes look sad. How much damage will this divorce cause?

We speak to the child.

How many colors can you see?

What sound was the most exciting in the zoo?

Where did you hide my phone?

We speak about the child.

We should look into the science camp for summer.

The dentist recommends at least retainers.

She cannot not do the classes her friends are doing.

You will take care of her this weekend.

We do not speak about us.

***

We climb into an airplane. We whisper our vows at the altar of every cathedral in northern Italy; we light candles in every chapel; we linger in every piazza. There isn’t a moment we aren’t touching. Fingers loop around ends of shirts. Then, we buy handkerchiefs at a flea market. She ties one around her wrist and one around mine. The third one connects with both ends and this way we are tied together. So, we won’t lose each other in the crowd, she laughs. So my shirts won’t have mangled ends, I laugh. We look like Baltic dancers, gripping the cloth since touching hands seems indecent. But instead of keeping us distant, the knots pull tighter. Palms nestle elbows – I stand at her back and call, support her up the hills, the stairs, the mornings. While we walk the ancient streets, look for a place to eat or listen to musicians, shoulder props up shoulder. Now, we stand at the Leaning Tower and know this is us: we are twin towers, leaning toward each other. Others take these absurd pictures where through perspective the tourist is holding up the tower. But, we won’t tumble. We can’t for our force fields are equally attracting and opposing. When she leans in more, I hold my strength against her softness. As she rights herself, I follow and move into her sphere. Before I could collapse on top of her, she arches, so our momentum changes, and her sway moves me back. We notice the pause while our glances build ocular pathways and bridges and connections. While we have separately built each floor singularly for the purpose of meeting, we now add layers in accordance with the systems of lines and webs we design. We draw our life plans and widen the scope. If we build higher, we can see farther, so the storms won’t surprise us while the sun would touch us first. We embellish the outsides, so we can flourish inside.

We are that wonderful.

What is it that you don’t want?

I don’t want to waste moments like these.

Then, let’s slow it down. I’ll take my foot off the accelerator, and you engage the brakes, gently. We want to still move forward, but much slower, so you and I can look around, count the steps in each Campanile, breathe into each kiss, feel the pulse of each hand.

Lean toward me.

Do we want to move in?

Not yet.

Do we want to buy a house?

Not yet.

Do we take the next job?

Not yet.

Do we want a baby?

Not yet.